All my stories take place in a parallel world, very similar to our own, where STI's do not exist, so my stories are filled with practices that are highly unsafe in this world. I'm not going to say don't try this at home, but take care of yourself.
All my characters are of legal age, and you should be, too—do not read my stories if you are under the legal age in your country/area. Any resemblance to real persons, locations, or events is entirely coincidental.
This story is brought to you by my wonderful Patrons. I love you guys!
And now, our feature presentation...
"So, Jacob, how have you been doing this past month? Any progress?" Doctor Wellington asked me, taking his seat in the armchair across from the overstuffed couch that I'd sunken into. It had been a month to the day since our last appointment. I blushed and looked down at my lap, reluctant to tell the embarrassing truth. "Are the dreams still happening?"
"Yes," I answered softly. When I woke up this morning, my sheets had been completely soaked with my own cum. I couldn't remember my dreams, but I knew they had been sex. Lots of sex.
I glanced up at him to see his reaction, but he was just looking down at his clipboard.
Last month he'd given me a medication that was supposed to help with my problems, but I was also supposed to be masturbating.
"How often are they happening?" He asked, taking notes as he spoke. I blushed, remembering the countless times I would wake up, soaked in cum, pleasure fading away with the memory of the dreams.
"O-once or twice a night," I lied, squeezing my eyes closed as my cock throbbed in my jeans. It was still more than twice as much as it had been happening before our last appointment.
"I see. And how many times have you masturbated this month?" He asked. This was one of the big issues we had been working on for the entire time he'd been working with me. I'd grown up in a very religious household, and the punishment for masturbation had been severe. Even after I'd left, I couldn't bring myself to do it. I was twenty-two years old, and I had never had an orgasm.
At least, not when I was awake.
"I... I still haven't done it," I confessed, deciding to be honest this time.
"Jacob, we've been working on this for almost a year now. Do you still believe it is wrong to be homosexual?" He asked, addressing the second issue that had been weighing me down with so much shame that I'd started to have panic attacks.
"No," I admitted, and it was true. He'd introduced me to some friends of his who were biblical scholars, and I had been shocked by the truths hidden behind mistranslations, or that required historical context to understand.
I knew being gay was okay with Jesus now.
"Do you still think masturbating is wrong?" He came back around to the main issue.
"No," I said, unable keep all my reluctance out of my tone. I'd seen what they'd done to my older brother—our parents.
"That's right. Masturbating is normal," he said, reasonably, snapping me out of those horrific memories.
"Y-yes." I agreed with him, trying to will myself to believe it.
"Say it with me," he instructed.
"Masturbation is normal," we said together.
"That's right. How about the medication. Any side effects?" He asked, scribbling away.
"I... I don't think it's working, doc. I think it's making it worse." I whined, remembering how horny I had been over the past month... And still was. My cock throbbed in my pants, leaking into my underwear.
"In what way?" He questioned; his pen poised to start taking notes.
"The dreams are happening even more, and I'm cumming a lot more... Like, there's a lot more of it. And I'm so... Aroused, all the time."
"That's because you aren't masturbating," he admonished me in a gentle tone. "You need to masturbate. Say it," he commanded.
"I need to masturbate," I squeaked, the words sending chills up my spine.
"I know you mean it, but you also meant it last month, and the month before that. Given how much work we've done on this, and how little progress we've made, I think it's time to run some tests," he said ominously. "I've ordered some lab work, so that we can rule out any physical problems, and that means that I will need a sample before you leave today."
"A sample?" I asked, thinking that I knew what he meant, but not believing it.
"You know exactly what I mean. Now, you have two choices: Either I can extract a sample by milking your prostate, or you can extract your own," he instructed in a no-nonsense tone.
"M-milking?" I questioned, confused... What could that mean?
"I would conduct an examination of your prostate and milk a sample from you that way. It's intense, but many gay men do find it pleasurable," he explained. I stared at him in horror.
"I can't do that!"
"Well, then the alternative is to be normal and masturbate into a cup."
"I'll do it!" I cried out, both horrified and intrigued by the alternative he'd offered.
Milking my prostate.
I'd have no choice, if he did that. My body would betray me, like it did in my dreams, as my doctor stuck his fingers up my ass and milked...
Milked me.
I felt my cock squirt precum into my already damp underwear as I thought about it.
I was breathing heavy, and I watched Doctor Wellington stand up and walk over to a cabinet to retrieve a specimen cup. He opened it and placed it on the table next to me before going back to his seat. He settled in, crossing his legs.
"You might not have done it, but I know that you know how it's done. Take out your penis, Jacob. Either you get your sample, or I will." His voice was deep, commanding, and there was something in his tone that I'd never heard before. My trembling fingers moved down to the front of my pants.
I couldn't let him milk me.
Like a fucking cow.
Forcing cum out of me.
Fingers inside me.
Caught up in the fantasy, I tugged at my belt, pulling it loose of the buckle and letting it fall open to each side.
Next was the button, that was easy. After the button, my fingers carefully pinched the zipper tag, and I gently pulled it down, trying to pull the material up and away from my dick so that the sensations didn't make me hornier
In front of my doctor.
Each click of the zipper, pulled tight, reverberated through the denim, sending tiny thrills through my erection. It only lasted a moment, but it was like my jeans were vibrating.
My pants were open, and only my loose boxers remained between my hand and my penis.
"Do you want to go to hell?" My mother's angry screech echoed through my head, and my hand froze.
"Shhh, calm down," Doctor Wellington snapped me out of it, bringing me back to the present. "Don't worry about the past. The past doesn't matter. What matters now is masturbating. You need to masturbate."
"I need to masturbate," I agreed absently, my panic rapidly fading away.
"That's right. Say it again." He instructed.
"I need to masturbate." I said, with a sigh.
"Again." He ordered, watching me from his seat.
"I need to masturbate!" I said, surprising myself with how eager I'd just sounded, and how my cock had throbbed with the words.
"Keep saying it." He ordered, his voice making it clear that there was no room for arguments.
"I need to masturbate!" I knew that it would feel good, remembering the fading pleasure each time I'd waken up with my hard cock squirting into my sheets.
"And do it." He demanded.
"I need to masturbate!" I cried out as my cock twitched and leaked, the wet patch on my boxers spreading.
"Take out your penis." He cooed.
"I need to masturbate!" I said, as if in agreement, my hand moving to the fly of my boxers, flicking open the button.
"And masturbate," he said, his voice making the word sound musical.
